


Zoh's Fire Emblem Flash Fiction Repository!

by ZoeGMiller



Category: Fire Emblem, fire emblem awakening
Genre: Brides, Comfort, D/s, Dominance, F/F, Modern AU, Oral, PWP, Paizuri, Scissoring, Titfuck, Trans, Trans Female Character, Transgender, Tribbing, Wedding, i'm trying to get over how ridiculous words like 'tribbing' sound to be please be gentle ;-;
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-04-14 19:39:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14143122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoeGMiller/pseuds/ZoeGMiller
Summary: A place for me to put shorter works I do for my patreon donators!





	1. Backslide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iavenjqasdf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iavenjqasdf/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it comes to Noire's nighttime comfort, Kjelle's got the best remedy in town.

"The dreams again, huh?" Kjelle asked, turning on the bedside light.

Kjelle’s strong arms pulled her into a soft embrace. Biting back the tears of worry trembling at her eyelashes, Noire nodded. 

After a minute or two, Noire’s breathing slowed, soothed by the even rhythm of Kjelle’s heartbeat. Calloused fingers rocked against Noire’s wrists, Kjelle whispered, “You okay?”

“Y-yeah…” Noire’s tongue darted out, moistening her lips. “Only…”

“Only?”

“Now I’m…” A squirm shuddered through her. Kjelle’s lips stroked against her scalp with every syllable, every breath. Her toes curled. “Now I’m all…”

With a click, the bedside light was off. "Well,” Kjelle replied, “I guess there's only one thing to be done about that."

Before she could react, Noire found herself flung over onto her back, head nearly clonking off the headboard. "Kjelle!" Lightheaded, she stifled a giggle. "Really, you don't have to!"

"Who said anything about have to?" Kjelle replied, salacious grin lost to the folds of Noire's chemise as she kissed her way down her girlfriend’s stomach.

At the roll of Kjelle's tongue over her belly button, Noire moaned. At the showy grip of Kjelle’s teeth into the waistband of her shorts, she whined, lifting her hips. It was a bit of a struggle, one Kjelle was too impatient to endure. Muttering "Ah, screw it," she yanked Noire's shorts down by the elastic quick enough to break Noire’s will and hurl her headlong into a giggle fit.

In the darkness, Kjelle found Noire almost by her scent. She pressed her nose against the run of Noire's thigh and inhaled slow and hard over her musk, the cool draw of breath rolling a shiver of anticipation through Noire's body.

"Ah," she said with quiet worry, turning her head away. An unspent tear finally shed down her cheek. “Seriously, I’m okay.” And her heartbeat rose in her chest, adrenaline of passion muddling with the tenor of tension lingering after her nightmare. “D-don’t you have work in the morning?”

“Will you just shut up and let me take care of you already?”

The abrupt intake of air, and the clutch of her thighs around Kjelle’s head, sufficed for Noire’s permission.

Kjelle moved onward, enjoying how her breath rushed around in her ears with the close of Noire's thighs around her head. She offered a kiss atop soft pubic hair, slightly moist with budding excitement.

Slim fingers blessed with hidden strength knotted in Kjelle’s tousled hair. Noire's hips jutted upwards. "Oh, Kjelle..." 

Kjelle leaned in, priming Noire with a slow drag of her tongue. She closed her eyes, drinking in Noire's scent. Noire’s cheek touched the pillow. Her lips trembled with words unspoken. Kjelle’s finger glided home. In the same motion, her lips found Noire's cunt. She stroked aggressively, but with precision, framing the outline of her lover's clit, but avoiding it with tantalizing strokes and traces. Noire was sensitive, doubly so in times like these. Kjelle had to wait until Noire was ready. She had to wait until--

Noire moaned. Her stomach tensed. Her thighs ground into Kjelle’s ears, transforming a light touch into a possessive clench, holding her captive. Her voice deepened with excitement. “That’s right,” she spoke halfway between a growl and a giggle, “Fuck me.” The touches of a sadistic grin tickling the corners of her mouth. “Get. Me. Off.”

She had to wait until THAT, basically.

Bracing herself, she gripped Noire firmly enough around the thigh to spark a giggle of anticipation. "Hold on tight," she rasped.

From then on, it was an attack. Kjelle devoured Noire's pussy, tongue laving out in strokes broad and then precise and then broad again, swiping in practiced patterns around the outline of her cunt and then stabbing inward with tongue and finger to force an arc of Noire’s spine. 

Past the point of over-stimulus, Noire squealed and thrashed, only kept on the bed, let alone in place, by Kjelle's iron grip around her leg. Noire could get freaky strong as Kjelle liked to say, when the mood hit, but even “freaky” strength wasn’t a match for Kjelle’s raw muscle-head physique.

Noire’s legs shot up, locking around Kjelle’s shoulders “Just like that!” She cooed, voice angry and eager, beating her hips up to great each squeeze of Kjelle’s hands. “Get me off!” Pulse of Kjelle’s tongue. “Eat my pussy!” Each stab of her finger. “Make me fucking cum.” 

Short fingernails dug into Noire’s leg in reciprocal hold. She submerged herself in the taste and texture of her lover, tracing around the subtle outline that separated clit and hood. The slide of a second finger against her.

“Kjelle.” Noire whimpered.

The wolfish sound of Kjelle’s tongue echoed between her thighs.

“Kjelle!” Her legs locking around Kjelle, threatening to crush.

The thrust of third finger inside of her, paired to the crowning shiver of Kjelle’s tongue over her clit.

“KJELLE!”

A raspy wheeze of shared pants as they seperated, and Kjelle sprawled onto her back, dizzied, as she remember how to breathe again.

Noire lolled her head back and forth against her pillow, enjoying the last few impulsive writhes of her hips and wriggles of her toes, shocked out of her post-orgasmic stupor by the soft touch of Kjelle’s calloused hand against her cheek. “Feel better, babe?” Kjelle asked with uncharacteristic softness, which shone only in dark moments like these.

Noire reached up, grabbing her girlfriend roughly by the back of her head. Massaging Kjelle’s earlobes, she shimmered with spent energy, emitting a titter of relief, and saying, “Kjelle, I could sleep for a week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! \o/ this work was commissioned by iavenjqasdf, one of my patreons! If you'd like to see how YOU can get me to write something--safe for work, not safe for work, or anything in between --whatever that means??? (•ิ_•ิ)? (•ิ_•ิ)?-- well... just read on!
> 
> As always, I appreciate comments more than frank and honest feedback about whether this bit is annoying, I just keep doing because it's the copy pasts with all the links. ANYWAY: I am available for commissions currently via my [Patreon](http://www.patreon.com/zohg), and you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/zoegmiller), [tumblr](http://zoegmiller.tumblr.com/), [curious cat](https://curiouscat.me/zohg). All sorts of places! <3


	2. Reorientation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it comes to making making hers and Cordelia's wedding night one to remember, Sumia is her own worst enemy.
> 
> (Flowers can go stuff it! :3)

Wedding days were never easy, but Sumia had advanced inconvenience to an art form. Just counting the missteps starting with their escape from the bridal tent, she’d tripped while carrying Cordelia over the threshold to their suite, depositing the two of them into a jumbled pile of limbs, corsets, and gauzy veils into the bridal suite’s thankfully plush carpet. She’d fumbled with Cordelia’s dress, she’d fumbled with  _ her  _ dress, she stripped Cordelia’s underthings with all the dexterity of a drunken monkey, fingers shaking as if she’d never  _ seen  _ a woman’s bra before, much less doffed her own every night of her life since they’d forced her to start wearing one.

And now?

Pinned beneath Sumia’s wriggling grip, and suffering what felt like slings and arrows more than the eager exploration of her wife’s fingers, Cordelia decided enough was enough.

“Sumia…”

Making a face as if Cordelia’s body were an overcomplicated set of furniture instructions, Sumia whimpered, “It’s okay, I’ll—” 

“Sumia.”

Sumia firmed up her jaw and set her shoulders. “I’m fine! I-if I can just—”

“ _ Sumia! _ ”

At the rather stern bellow of her name, Sumia instinctually stood to rapt attention—well, before they were brides, finances, or even girlfriends, Cordelia  _ had  _ outranked her in the pegasus corps. Though the mewl of a whimper that spilled past her lips, not to mention the tears now trembling at her lashes, probably wouldn’t have earned her much respect in the training grounds.

“Sumia, love.” She clasped both of her hands around one of her bride’s to halt the awkward, if enthusiastic, prodding. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but—”

“The flower fortunes were right!” Sumia sat back atop Cordelia’s legs and moaned out her grief to the ceiling. “This is all Sully's fault! She wouldn’t let me redo them before the ceremony so I’d get a good one.”

Cordelia couldn’t help but laugh. “ _ That’s _ why you were late to the altar? You wanted a do-over with the flowers?”

“You don’t understand!” Sumia offered worriedly, groping the air this way and that, as if appealing to an invisible jury. “You’re  _ perfect _ . Everything you do is  _ perfect _ . S-so what would you think of me if I ruined this like I ruin everything else?” Her dark brown eyes shone with tears. Deep breaths between words, the colossal effort of holding them back. “If our wedding night wasn’t perfect too?”

“I’d think we had another two weeks to get it right. It’s not just our wedding night, it’s our  _ honeymoon _ ,” Cordelia said softly, cupping Sumia’s cheek into her palm. “And if two weeks aren’t enough, we have the rest of our lives to shake out the kinks.” Then, hooking her leg around Sumia’s rear, she drew her close for a slow kiss. 

Sumia moaned into the soft advance of Cordelia’s tongue. All at once, she was unburdened. Treacherous thoughts of weakness fled from her mind before the sureness of her wife’s kiss.

Cordelia thought she’d wait a few days before mentioning that was a move from her romance novels she’d always yearned to try.

It was funny, how those moments tended to work out.

Cordelia squirmed a little, sitting up against the headboard with Sumia’s gentle assistance. Their hips met, and gently rocked against one another. Cordelia held Sumia at the small of her back, and at her neck, supporting her weight. Sumia’s nails traced tenderly over Cordelia’s face. Without a thought, they tested how they locked with one another, how they fit. Cordelia’s nose flared with new breath, as their legs intertwined and Sumia’s heat met her own. She tensed all the way down to her toes, their bodies interlocked, and she was paralyzed.

A heartbeat surged so hard in Sumia’s chest it pained her, then her pulse froze. Her nails dug into  Cordelia’s shoulders. 

“Let’s start…” Cordelia felt her vision go to pinpoints. She had to think just to breathe. “Slow…”

So they did. They rocked with one another, against one another, sharing warmth and wet. Cordelia’s hand at Sumia’s neck tickled upwards, into the piles of her elaborate hairdo, somehow undisturbed through all this. She held on tight, and let herself fall into sensation, as Sumia rode her.

Sumia could hardly concentrate, but instinct proved her much more capable that her conscious mind allowed. Their soft hairs tickled against one each other, thrilling velvet with the rush of skin against skin. Sometimes the slide of hips and thighs, sometimes the thrust of them, sometimes the needy, insufficient grind that made Sumia moan blindly for more. She fell forward, breasts pooling atop Cordelia’s, seeking better sensation, seeking  _ more _ . 

She began to cry out, so Cordelia thought to silence her, but the muffling of lips and tongue lasted only a moment. Short of breath and shorter of thought, Cordelia began to echo those sounds. Her fingers had never left the small of Sumia’s back. They clenched there, pulling, holding, gripping, keeping. Cordelia, brow furrowed in the concentration required just to bear this overwhelming sensation, found it impossible to tell who was doing what, or even who was who. Life became a blur. They seemed to lose themselves to each other. Hands grasped and groped. Bodies collided. Nipples slid over shuddering skin. A full, precious body began to shake. Its lips began to mewl. 

Who screamed first? Who dug nails into skin? Who bit down on their lip? Who reached between slick, sweaty bodies to massage them past the breaking point? Who took fistfuls of hair and plunged against the other for those last few, fugue-like moments of their shared climax?

It truly didn’t matter. It almost felt better, not knowing at all.

With the tickle of Sumia’s timid smooches along her collar bone, Cordelia did her best to summon a wry grin, but her body was surprisingly heavy at the moment, and willfully disobedient. How badly she wanted to lift her hand and touch her wife. Still, lips gracing against the crown of Sumia’s head, through her pants of recovery, she managed to say, “Tell  _ that  _ to your flowers.” 

Sumia rolled off of her, collapsing into the comforter with an explosion of fluff. Her jaw was slack, her expression dazed. Her right leg still shook, here and there, as the last of the jitters worked their way out of her body. She let her ear fall against her shoulder, regarding her wife like a cautious kitten. “Was that… how you expected it to be?”

“Nope.” And before Sumia could finish her mewl of disappointment, Cordelia corrected. “Better.”

“Flowers can go stuff it!” Sumia chirped.

“Too right,” replied Cordelia, quietly, counting the pebbled spots of light in her vision. She hadn’t expected orgasm to be so… all-encompassing.

But, she felt life returning to her lips, and her senses clearing. Enraptured by the sight of her wife’s blissful squirming beside her, Cordelia felt the desire welling up from her stomach once more, and the strength returning to her limbs.

“Now then,” she said, summoning Sumia’s attention with by fanning herself with a loose hand. Her legs spread, inviting. Her pussy was open, wet, red from friction. Spread fingers framed it, that glistening treasure, in a generous V. Cordelia grinned something wicked. “Care to show me what you’ve learned?” 


	3. A Strange Sort of Pas De Deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dancers, fortunately or not, must find alternate ways to provide each other succor.
> 
> (a Ninian/Lene piece, facilitated by Fire Emblem Heroes, requested by Ceri)

Lene groaned as Ninian lowered each of her feet into the bucket of heated water. “They don’t understand at all.”

“Isn’t that right?” Ninian giggled, strong fingers digging into Lene’s arches and ankles, massaging them affectionately. “Day in day out it’s, ‘we need a dancer over here!’ or ‘Ninian, right flank, on the double!’”

Toes wriggled against the tickle of the effervescent bubbles of the herbal remedy Ninian had added to the water. “And when the day’s done, and they’re all as refreshed as the day they were born, and bouncing against each other like babes at play the whole way home, does even a single one of them notice we dancers, limping forty paces behind the caravan? 

“Of course not!” Ninian replied.

“Of  _ course _ not!” Lene chorused, falling back against the bed. The silken sheets were absolutely wonderful, even as they clung to her sweaty skin. “Just once, it’d be nice to have one of  _ them  _ offer to take care of us, instead of the other way around…” Ninian’s thumbs ground into the sore, overstimulated muscles of her calves, and Lene yelped, startled from her reverie.

“Too hard?”

“No…” Lene drawled, mindlessly. “Perrrrfect…” 

Her fingers swept through the sheets. Her cheek squashed down into the mattress. The water felt hot enough to scald, especially in this summer heat that had them strip down to their birthday suits the moment they’d crossed the threshold of their chambers, but who cared? Having a woman like Ninian work you over after a long day performing was every dancer’s dream. Ninian moved up, applying her powerful touch to Lene’s thighs and Lene shuddered out her pleasure at her Ninian’s firm ministrations. “Oh, Ninian, this feels amaaaaazing…”

Through a barely contained snort of mirth, Ninian replied, “I can see that.”

“Hm?” Lene shuffled up on her elbows to peer at Ninian. “What do you mean?” 

And, offered a full view of her own nude body, she couldn’t help but notice how— 

“Well…” She blushed, ducking her head and pointedly looking away from the bob of her suddenly hard cock. “C-can you blame me?”

“Blame?” Ninian asked, voice softer than the nighttime creak of the summer insects outside their window. “That’s a funny word for it.”

“…eh?”

But, propping herself up on her elbows, Lene could only watch as…

Ninian squeezed her breasts together, offering a glittering show in the candlelight, as a long bead of saliva slipped past her lips, pooling into the her cleavage. Lene’s knees began to jerk with the shiver of her hips. Not very graceful, but she was exhausted, and her mind was far past the point of  _ grace _ . Her mind was past the point of  _ anything _ , but watching Ninian’s fingers spread that slick promise against her own skin.

When she was done, Ninian pressed fingers against Lene’s lips. She ducked her head, as if shy, as Lene’s tongue dutifully wet them. Slickened fingers displayed themselves for Lene’s approval. Her hand closed around Lene’s cock. A fireball burst inside Lene’s stomach at the reaction of their flesh, but Ninian stifled her gasp with the press of a single finger against Lene’s lips. 

“Come here,” she said, softly.

She inclined her body, her breasts fell against Lene’s thighs, and with a ripple of her fingers, she drew Lene into her waiting bosom.

Lene, overcome, could do nothing but stick her thumb in her mouth and bite down, hard, as Ninian’s breasts embraced her. Her mind was lost to the sweet sensation of soft, generous flesh around her cock, and her body ably moved to meet Ninian’s slow rhythm. A dancer’s gift might not empower and refresh other dancers, but that did not make it useless. 

Patient, and cautious, and better than any metronome, she guided Lene. The first beat of the measure, a retreat, a pulling away. The second, a pause at the nadir, the subtle shifting of bodies against one another, a soft coo from Ninan to match the ragged pant of Lene’s. The third, the ripple of Ninian’s breasts as Lene drove upwards. And the fourth, the teasing imprint of a kiss upon Lene’s cock at the apex of its thrust.

It was a strange sort of pas de deux they shared. Ninian on her knees, needing nothing more that the soft embrace of her breasts and the sublime roll of her back to pace Lene’s overeager thrusts. and Lene whimpering through clenched teeth, laced fingers against the back of Ninian’s neck to countervail each vigorous thrust, praying each second just to live until the next one passed, until she felt the heated kiss of Ninian’s lips upon her crown once more.

She began to wheeze, her stomach tense and hard. Her hips juttered erratically, and sputtering breath followed every incautious thrust. She drove herself against the valley of Ninian’s breasts, desperate for each slick gift of pressure and warmth that awaited the tip of her cock at the apex of each thrust.  

“Ninian!” Lene whispered, taking great fistfuls of her long blue hair. “Nin—!”

Ninian was perceptive—dancers were nothing if not solicitous to the needs of others—and at the first chime of her name past Lene’s lips, her own closed around the tip of Lene’s cock. Her hands fell from her breasts, scooping underneath Lene’s sack, coaxing it gently, her fingertips slinking deeper, gracing across Lene’s entrance.

Just the suggestion was enough to spark a staccato cry from Lene. At Ninian’s command, her body unleashed itself—its tensions, its anxiety, its aches, into Ninian’s waiting mouth.

They lay together in silence for a while, once it was over, in loose embrace, counting each other’s breaths, and luxuriating in the summer heat radiating from the stone walls. Gazing into her lover’s eyes, Ninian squeezed her thighs against the ache she’d finally noticed weaving its surreptitious tendrils through her core muscles. 

“It’s a shame our dances don’t work on one another. Otherwise…” Her fingers swept simple patterns through the pebbles of sweat decorating Lene’s soft skin. “I might ask you to…” She shared a long gaze with Lene, moistening her lips. Her touch snuck downward… “Go—” 

Ninian tilted her head, breath caught in her lungs. Her teasing touch alighted on Lene’s cock and found it, somehow, already hard.

Lene’s glazed eyes grew suddenly rapt. A cavernous grin spread across her lips. “Again?”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written at the request of one of my patreons, Ceri! Thank you Ceri!! >:o [Find out more about it (and my other writings) here!](http://www.patreon.com/zohg)


	4. Coy & Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nephenee's had it up to ~HERE~ with Heather's attitude!! :<

Nephenee shifted impatiently atop the bench, the adrenaline of a solid workout still coursing through her veins. “Let me go. It’s hardly a scratch.”

“Nonsense,” Heather chided, “If I’d discovered I’d somehow marred the cute little body that got me signed up for this ill-fated endeavor in the first place I’d—” Heather grunted, shucking Nephenee’s pauldrons and hefting them to the side. Then, removing the cuirass, it joined its partner on the ground with a clatter. “There, that’s better. Now spread your legs.”

Nephenee looked to the side, as Heather inspected the damage on her right calf. She wasn’t acting tough! Blunted training swords _could_ cut, of course, but not well. Honestly, surprising as it might’ve been that someone like Heather was able to get such a sturdy hit on her, the worst victim in all of this was Nephenee’s trousers.

“I’m going to need to take these down—”

“E-eh?” Nephenee responded, suddenly roused from her sartorial musings.

“—to apply the ointment. Why, I couldn’t bear the stain on my soul, if some _grisly_ wound I inflicted became infected and sent a precious little lady like you to an early grave.”

“As if! I’ve got more scars than you’ve pilfered coins, ya lout!” Nephenee replied, on instinct, her blue eyes wide with need to defend her martial prowess. “Ya ding me with one lucky sword swipe and all of a sudden yer claiming thatcha—” Realizing, however, that she was babbling out this protest directly to the unsubtle dip of Heather’s cleavage in her immodest little jerkin, Nephenee brought herself urgent halt to by swallowing a hard gulp of air. “I-I mean… do as ya like.”

Without a word of defense against such a strident reproach of her morals, Heather went to her knees, easing between Nephenee’s spread legs and Nephenee watched, mute and entranced, as Heather’s undid the laces of her trousers with the merest of tugs.

The pungent salve stunk worse than the stuff they used to smear on the foals. Still, Heather’s fingers worked skin as easily as they picked locks, and she filled the air with gentle conversation. “If you had as many as scars as what _I’ve_ pilfered, you’d be more scars than skin, but I see one or two here I wouldn’t mind hearing the tale of…”

Nothing stokes a warrior’s pride more than the recounting of old battles, victories past, and the marks incurred in the defense of one’s family and homeland? Nephenee stood to partial attention, despite the trousers around her ankles, ready to deploy a tale of derring and valor—

Unfortunately for Nephenee’s inchoate confidence, the mark Heather directed her gaze towards was _actually_ incurred during a rather unheroic... bull-riding exploit of her humdrum youth.

A squeeze of pressure around her calf brought her, blushing with foolish memory as she was, back to the present. Heather stroked the salve into her skin with a firm circle of her calloused thumb. Nephenee’s lip trembled and, before she could stop herself, a strangled sound lodged itself in her throat.

Heather’s expression darkened. Her nose flared with soft breath, and she canted her head, a bloodhound attuning to a particularly odorous quarry. “Oh? Is it possible that I’ve been so consumed in my appreciation of my cute little soldier, that I didn’t notice she was—”

Nephenee’s eyes went wide. “T-that’s neither here nor there!”

“Naturally.” Heather’s husky voice lowered an octave. Her lips parted with a world-eating grin spread. She touched down on Nephenee’s thighs, massaged deeply into tensed muscles. “We’ve dealt with the obvious issue, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t…” Her touch dawdled along the coarse finger of Nephenee’s smallclothes. “Check. You. Over.” A flash in her eyes. Just enough of a delay for her intent to pierce even the battle-thickened skull of a young soldier, before she clarified: “For bruising, and such.”

“You city folk with your high falutin’ opinions of yerself…” Nephenee shook out her long hair with a dismissive flicker of her head, proud as any stallion. “I toldja, I’ve had worse injuries milkin’ cows, let alone in a fair fight.”

She only partially acknowledged how she needed it—that flagrant display—to soften the blow to her soldier’s pride, as she so pliantly lifted her hips as Heather removed her smallclothes.

“See?” There was a newly purpling patch, above Nephenee’s knee. “There’s a hard hit I got on you. Who says the thief can’t—” The pressure of her fingertips against Nephenee’s leg, on a particular spot. “And here—”

“… _nyeh_ …”

With a feline smile, Heather peeked up at her de facto patient, wriggling eyebrows half-hidden behind the her wheaty blonde hair. “Did that hurt?”

Rapidly, Nephenee shook her head. “No!”

“No need to shout,” Heather replied. Coyly, she wasted a moment tucking her long hair behind her ears as Neph’s knees jittered and bobbed before her. Then, right at the moment Nephenee, bristling, burning, overloaded with unconsummated energy, couldn’t bear another moment in absence of her touch, when Nephenee could feel the tension burning off her with every bead of sweat rolling down face…

She resumed.

Heather massaged deeper into the bruised muscles of Nephenee’s left quad. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve always found the tension of a good workout hits me right…” Fingertips down the swell of Nephenee’s corded abdomen. “About…” Tracing a semicircle around the fringe of her tufty hair. “ _Here…_ ”

Heather’s thumb planted itself deeply into sore and heated flesh, right at the crux of her thigh. A blissful conjunction of sensitive pain and sharp pleasure flowed into Nephenee’s bloodstream. And she released that woeful sound, again. That little whimper. That quail of a caught animal.

_“…nnnyeh…”_

Nephenee now—quite intimately, she thought—understood how a chicken must feel, when their neck’s wrung.

“Oh?” Heather smiled. Her tongue eased out to moisten her lips; a mountain cat grown fat and confident by stalking easy, domesticated prey. “That’s a familiar sound… but not quite what I’m looking for… You know, Nephenee-dear, when a sweet, tough girl like you gives me one of her good, strong workouts—”

A triplicate of panting breath wheezed through Nephenee’s chattering teeth, as she observed the encroach of Heather’s fingers. This was too much! She couldn’t take it!

“—I all but _require_ a nice, relaxing, _cool-me-down_ of a…”

The toying. The _teasing_.

“Massage,” Heather concluded.

 _Oh, buzz off!_ Nephenee thought. Frustration ricocheted inside her.

Heather’s thumb stroked inwards, inlaying a pattern around the pearl of Nephenee’s clit, drawing away its hood. The smooth compression of touch drew a flicker from Nephenee’s limbs, all at once, an uncoordinated blurt of energy, like a puppet manned by a rank amateur.

 _Oh,_ please _don’t sod off…_ Nephenee quickly corrected herself.

Heather—she thought, desperate for distraction’s relief from the burgeoning tension inside her—was no rank amateur… in as much as a girl like Nephenee was qualified to judge such things.

“Of course, that sort of massage is no good if you don’t add a…”

Which is to say, she wasn’t. She wasn’t cultured like Heather was. She didn’t have “street smarts” or “guile.”

Heather’s fingertip drew downward, parting the cleft of Nephenee’s lips, spreading the moisture of her cunt, and probing gently forward…

All _she_ was qualified to judge was a sword from a spear, or a bull from a cow. And she _certainly_ didn’t grow up in a place where people did whatever they wanted…

Heather paused at the Nephenee’s primed entrance, eyes glistening with ingenue spirit.

 _Took_ whatever they wanted…

Pursed lips, insouciant as they were innocent. “That is… if you thought that would—”

Summoning every ounce of control she could, Nephenee threw a hand around Heather’s wrist and—

“Aan!” She cried out, finally—blissfully—taken.

—even if she was required to take herself.

“That’s my girl,” Heather husked, leaning in with wolfish intent. Permission granted, she worked Nephenee as quickly, as efficiently, as any other implement of her trade. Nephenee groaned, biting at her lower lip as the pleasant feeling of pressure branched like slow, implacable flame up into the crucible her stomach. Heather’s single finger dove into her, and curled upwards on the return strike, pistoning into her with mechanical rhythm. She was panting, fingers digging into the bench as if to stop her from floating away, and stomach heaving in curt little waves. Nephenee slapped a hand against her mouth. Her eyes went to slits. She bit down on her palm hard enough to draw blood. She felt boorish, wheezing through her clenched fingers, staring out at Heather’s parted lips through the gauzy curtain of her hair.

But she wanted things! Even if she wasn’t bold like Heather was. Even if she wasn’t _clever_ like Heather was. Even if she certainly hadn’t the first idea on how to be _coy_. Even if she was nothing but a rueful little hayseed—stout, hard, and cracked—shaken away and lost in the dirt, baring no comparison to the tall, majestic, golden strands of Heather’s wheat. Wasn’t she allowed to want things, even so? Even if she couldn’t take them. Or form the picture of them in her head without blushing and stammering over herself. Or even if she had no earthly idea even how to say…

“Please!”

With a slap, Nephenee’s hand struck the back of Heather’s neck, precluding any retreat. Heather reined her right back, with a fistful of hair, drawing her into a sharp, deep kiss. Their tongues twined, pulsing with the vibrations of Nephenee’s suppressed moan. Nephenee trembled, her core shaking, her legs jittering, as the acid burn of her workout caught up with her. As the oppressive heat of summer beaded over every square inch of skin. With two fingers, Heather spread an entire world inside her. And Nephenee could think of nothing she desired more than to clench down with grubby, peasant fingers and take it. Devour this woman, still what made her so tall, so beautiful, so adept at taking what she wanted, whether it be treasure, or power, or rueful little hayseeds with nothing to give.

For now, she settled on quenching her scream of release with a clamp of teeth around Heather’s blissfully flexing tongue, and bruising a set of fingerprints deep enough into Heather’s neck that she’d be wearing her hair down for a _week_ , if she had any shame.

When Nephenee’s death grip finally released, Heather fell back with a laugh of pure bravado, fanning the air with a hand still glistening of Nephenee’s honeyed qualia. “That good, huh?”

Which, of course, she did not.

Nephenee flicked her head away, chin up, with a flurry of her deep green hair. “Tell yerself whatever you’d like!”

It was the final vestige of her strength, before she collapsed with a thud, supine atop the bench, and watched with dizzied eyes as the sky above swam and pulsed with new colors and a fresh, wonderful radiance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to iavenjqasdf both for the prompt and their continued [Patreon Support!](https://www.patreon.com/zohg)


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